


Deliberate Contact

by AnnaBolena



Series: These Years Spent in Paris [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1825, Alcohol, Lots of Alcohol because Grantaire, March - August, Minor Character Death, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 16:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18814720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “Come now, let us not pretend, Monsieur. Pascal writes dreadfully theoretical essays on science and mathematics, incomprehensible to most laymen and pretentious gibberish even to those versed in the field! That hardly seems stimulating for a young man such as yourself! I am sure there are other texts you would prefer to read. Why, the very fact that you are so eager to pause your intellectual pursuits to bicker with me proves it cannot be as fascinating as you insist.”Promptly, the man returns to perusing his book, color high on his cheeks. Grantaire cannot help but grin.a.k.a. When Grantaire Met Enjolras





	Deliberate Contact

**Author's Note:**

> This was split off from a larger fic when it became apparent that I was, dedicated to making this very Hugo-esque, talking too much.

**Deliberate Contact**

 

**March 1825**

 

The road is not easy today. Heavy rainfall in previous weeks has rendered it muddy and uneven, and the carriage suffers for it, even if the rain has by now entirely abated. More pressingly, the passengers suffer for it.

 

For the fifth time in as many minutes, Grantaire feels the man to his right grasp at his leg to steady himself while trying to avoid waking up the sleeping child on his lap that has only just stopped bawling to settle down into fussy, uneasy rest. The fare was cheap enough to tolerate such a thing; he supposes that is an acceptable burden to accompany the acceptable dent in his savings.

 

What is rather more unacceptable is the young man seated across from him, who took the place of an old crone some miles ago. This man is improbably tall and most of his height seems to have been unfairly distributed to his legs, for his sharp knees bracket one of Grantaire’s. With every miniscule jolt of the carriage - and there are many of those - they press together, heat grows where they connect, expands up Grantaire’s leg. Perhaps the carriage is simply not fashioned for those taller than Grantaire.

 

Whenever their legs so bump together, the man glances up from his lecture, large blue eyes flitting briefly to Grantaire and immediately back down when he realizes he has drawn no ire. Grantaire is solely tempted to feign a put upon mien, if only to see what the man may do if he does not see a the closest thing to a reassuring smile he is capable of producing.

 

The carriage halts rather unexpectedly. Through the force of the movement the man is propelled forward, onto Grantaire. Only through virtue of having trained to fight does Grantaire avoid both a book and forehead to the nose. Next time he is obliged to leave Paris, he will make use of a horse.

 

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur.”

 

His voice has a nice ring to it, clear and concise, melodic. The man is the kind of youth certain poets would dedicate a million wistful sonnets to. As it is, Grantaire has no talent for verses, so he will not make an attempt he would surely botch. But his hands itch to depict this man in some manner. Gros would in all likelihood agree that such beauty deserves to be captured for posterity - no, that is not entirely right; demand is the better word. Gros likes to postulate that there are moments of greatness that compel anyone capable to make an effort at preservation. Human nature he calls it, and Grantaire has long rolled his eyes at the man’s sentiments, only to now be converted in an instant at the sight of those features.

 

“It is no trouble,” Grantaire insists, handing the fallen book back to the man. “Careful that you do not lose your place. I should hate to watch you suffer through more of this than absolutely necessary.”

 

At the man’s look Grantaire wishes he had learned, at some point in his life, to hold his tongue. Alas, not so!

 

“And this is what you believe to have observed?”

 

“That you do not much enjoy your lecture? Yes. I cannot say that I blame you, I always found Pascal’s work terribly dry, be that his triangles or his hydraulic theories.”

 

The man snaps his book shut, though he has marked what he has last read with his finger wedged in between the pages. Behind his ear a rather elegantly carved graphite pencil rests, balanced precariously and nearly toppled by the bounce of his locks. Grantaire has seen him make about a dozen markings throughout the journey, his brow furrowed, lending his youthful face an air of serious authority. It is fascinating, truly.  

 

“You are mistaken. I am rather enjoying it.”

 

“Come now, let us not pretend, Monsieur. Pascal writes dreadfully theoretical essays on science and mathematics, incomprehensible to most laymen and pretentious gibberish even to those versed in the field! That hardly seems stimulating for a young man such as yourself! I am sure there are other texts you would prefer to read. Why, the very fact that you are so eager to pause your intellectual pursuits to bicker with me proves it cannot be as fascinating as you insist.”

 

Promptly, the man returns to perusing his book, color high on his cheeks. Grantaire cannot help but grin. The carriage rolls forward again, onward they go. Instead of the family probably carrying lice, there now sits an elderly woman and a younger one, across on the opposite row, in the carriage with them. It affords Grantaire a slip of space more. The carriage rattles a bit as two young men climb to sit on the roof. He supposes that is a rather pleasant way to go about getting fresh air while the weather allows for it.

 

Seventeen minutes pass, he keeps an eye on his pocket watch for the duration of it, then he looks up at Grantaire once more: “It is not on mathematics, Monsieur, but rather his work on religion.”

 

To demonstrate, he holds up the title on the first page inside the cover. _Lettres provinciales_ , Grantaire reads, beneath a pseudonym belied by the name furnishing the book’s spine. It is a newer copy then, Grantaire supposes, not an inherited piece of ages past. “I had not thought you a man appreciative of satire, much less one willing to endeavor to read it despite a demonstrated disinclination towards it, if I am frank.”

 

“I was not aware you had already formed so sure an opinion of my person,” the young man retorts, quirking one eyebrow in a most delightful show of derision. “You must be very adept at it, if you so confidently assess me after we have not spoken for longer than the duration of but a few breaths.”

 

“That may be so,” Grantaire smiles, pleased to find him capable of such marvelous sarcasm. “His theological works have been lauded as page upon page of dry wit and eloquence, thoroughly illuminating the senselessness of certain denominations, but not once has your composure cracked to bestow as much as a smile upon what he has written down. I ask once more why a man would do such a thing to himself.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire sees one of the women shift, trying to appear inconspicuous but very obviously listening to their conversation. She is not subtle, though she takes care to stare at her lap and nothing else. A pretty thing, no doubt about that, with rosy cheeks and an ample bosom covered by a fichu of so fine a material it becomes almost superfluous. Her older travelling companion has chosen rather a more conservative material, dark blue and providing the desired coverage.

 

“You have read it, then?”

 

The young man draws him back into his spell, face visibly disapproving of the direction Grantaire’s eyes have strayed in. Ah, he has been caught, in more than one misstep. What a shame.

 

“Oh, very well, I will confess that I have, if you will answer my previous question.”

 

“I had heard he inspired the writings of some other authors I admire, that is all. A thorough study of sources is always an admirable goal when seeking to truly immerse oneself in the material, is it not? I thought I would enjoy it at least as much, if not more, but I found that what I enjoyed about the other authors were their politics, which he seems to have but little of. I cannot say I care much about his wit, nor have I sought out his treatises on probability or his geometric projections, though as they are his field of study I suppose they would be rather more captivating.”

 

Grantaire’s grandmother, though she has been buried for years now, could often be heard complaining about the rise of the smallfolk exercising political rights, a thing that had been unheard of in her youth. It is not unusual, he thinks, that works predating a woman he had always considered ancient would lack the arguments this man seeks.

 

“You do not appreciate fine rhetoric?”

 

“Not if it is empty of substance, to be sure. What man does not know that most of the clergy is lazy as well as corrupt, that it is senseless to persecute those that would differently interpret the selection of scripture deemed canon by a small, likely prejudiced group of men? This lecture provides me with no revelation, offers no counterpoint or further argument to any position I already hold, if I am frank.”

 

The man sighs, marking his place in the volume before snapping it closed, his lip curling sardonically for a brief spell, beholding the thing. Grantaire hums, allowing him to interpret it as agreement, and decides that he may very well use the young man’s undivided attention as long as it is granted. One can only observe the French countryside for so long before it blends into a single, dreary view. “Do not tell me you prefer to read Rousseau? To be sure his works are quite political, but at how high a price?”

 

“If you would not hear it I will not tell you,” the young man shrugs in return. But he yearns to speak of it, Grantaire can easily see that. Well, for lack of something better to do...

 

“Ah! So you are an admirer of his. An ardent one at that, I would wager. And I had thought you a smarter man than that!”

 

“It simply goes to show how easily first impressions may lead us astray.”

 

Grantaire cannot but raise his eyebrows at that. Veiled criticism, perhaps? He cannot imagine the man would have had a high opinion of him to begin with. Grantaire is not accustomed to making good impressions.

 

“You may insist otherwise, but his works are important and I will hear nothing about the existence of _original sin_ or any such nonsense from your mouth, if you thought to make such a point.”

 

“Hardly,” Grantaire laughs, “I am no fan of church doctrine myself, be sure of that. But this idea of the _noble savage_ , that mankind should be, at its core, good and just and that we need only return to that state of being for the problems plaguing us to cease? Ludicrous!”

 

The young man huffs, his fists clench tightly for a second. The young woman in the carriage with them seems to sit a little straighter, anticipating his response along with Grantaire. He watches her chest expand, hears her trembling breath. The older woman seems unbothered, though Grantaire has heard her try and disguise a scoff as a cough when he so discounted the ecclesiastical. But she does not seem like to scold them for it. Instead she continues to knit. Why one would do knitting in March, rather than embroidery, Grantaire cannot say. Perhaps she is planning a trip to Russia or some colder place still, in the near future.  

 

“He does not suggest we turn our backs on society to live in the forests once more, monsieur! I wonder now at you having read his work at all - have you? I believe you would find he very much suggests that the evil which springs up within society may well be defeated through reasoning and moral reflection, and that each man, woman and child would benefit from such an endeavor.”

 

It would appear the man believes in these ideas with all of his being. Christ, how long has it been since Grantaire has come across someone with so deeply founded convictions? You do not come along a man such as him everyday, much less in Paris, where cynicism - that destructive, insatiable monster - devours every bit of hope springing up from the ground, sooner or later.

 

“Ah yes,” Grantaire counters, “He must have been engaged in deep moral reflection when he bade his mistress, a lady he would not offer the security of marriage for years but refused to give up knowing carnally all the same, you will recall, give the five bastards she bore him into the abysmal care of their contemporary orphanages. How does that submit to reason, in your eyes?”

 

“We spoke of his philosophy and political works, to my recollection, not of his personal life. That a father might abandon his children is horrid, but irrele-”

 

“Are you so blinded by your admiration for him, or is it that you are detached enough that you may see the two as separate? I, personally, cannot. How odd that the words of so great a hypocrite should be so revered, rather than ignored and dismissed as the musings and attempts at justification of a man trying to absolve his own guilt because he otherwise fears he might drown in it! It is either that, monsieur, or the man is a heartless cur that cares not a bit about the unfortunate creatures he helped bring about into the world, and such a doctrine I would never deign to follow, for I confess myself to be led by my heart more than anything.”

 

“I suppose you adhere more to Voltaire, then?” The young man wonders, though his face is no longer so friendly as it was only minutes before.

 

“To be sure he starts out strong in his works, does he not? Dismissing the biblical notions of Adam and Eve, but he does not follow through accordingly. Quite the opposite, he grows entirely convinced of his own superiority without a sliver of acceptable proof to support his arguments. So certain is he of the white man's superiority over his fellow beings. ' _That_ _spirit of tolerance which he preaches without cease, and of which he sometimes has need_ ' they said of him, a politely phrased accusation of hypocrisy, ever apparent to his contemporaries and no less noticable now. No, Monsieur, I adhere to nothing, much less any of the currently fashionable schools of thought,” Grantaire rails, for he too can sham conviction when the moment calls for it.

Upon closer inspection he would be unmasked as a fraud, but he continues so that there is no time to analyze his words too closely. “None of the great philosophers have convinced me that they are not the worst of mankind - though admittedly I find myself partial to De Gouges’ flair, there is something admirable in so much passion and righteousness, and something intriguing in so tragic a fate.”

 

Another jolt sends the man flying right back into his lap, his hands braced on Grantaire’s shoulders and Grantaire’s nose pressed rather intimately into his cravat. He is engulfed, all too briefly, in the man’s smell, intermingling with dust and leather. It is not unpleasant, he will confess it freely to his own thoughts, but when the carriage tilts precariously, Grantaire must tighten his grip on the man’s waist so that they are not flung about the carriage. He hears a sharp intake of breath.

 

The elderly woman sticks her head outside the carriage, demanding to know what is going on. The young man once more removes himself from Grantaire, his breathing as fast as Grantaire’s. Well.

 

“One of the wheels broke,” the coachman’s face appears at the window to inform them. “Splintered right through the axis, too many cracks for us to safely continue the journey - bound to happen on these hellish roads. There’s an inn only a mile or two from here, if the Madames do not mind, they may make use of the horses while the rest of us pull the carriage there.”

 

“Nonsense,” the younger woman speaks up immediately, addressing the coachman in a voice clearly marking her as a foreigner, perhaps from across the channel: “We should be more than happy to make the journey on foot, it is not so far that I would worry about collapsing before I ever reached a bed.”

 

“Very good, Mademoiselle,” he tips his hat to her, then helps her out of the carriage gallantly. The lady accompanying her is afforded the same treatment. Once all have alighted, the young woman turns to Grantaire’s only hope of further entertainment to say: “Now that you are rather more approachable and not so engaged in debating your fellow men, Monsieur: might I inquire if you are familiar with Hobbes?”

 

This seems to, at last, move the young man to even recognize her existence. He turns towards her, blinks comically for a few seconds, as though wondering at her sudden appearance, then nods.

 

“I have read his _Leviathan_ , though I confess that I greatly disliked it,” his response is curt. The young lady smiles brilliantly, nodding along. “It is a senselessly pessimistic piece. Other men might call it free advertisement for a system all of France rose years ago to tear down.”

 

“Fascinating,” she tells him, “It is just that I thought to ask - well, do you truly suppose that mankind can only ever be tainted by private property, that it cannot do good to a person’s soul in some way? And are you so convinced that darkness cannot inherently be hidden away within a man, that he cannot be twisted from birth on but must be made so by society? That seems to me to entirely absolve him of responsibility, even should he take care to reflect upon his actions.”

 

“Mademoiselle,” the young man inclines his head apologetically, “For me to answer properly would take up quite a bit of time.”

 

“It is a good thing we have at least a mile between us and the inn then, is it not?”

“Yes, I suppose. Very well,” he agrees, nodding for her to fall in step with him. If Grantaire is not mistaken, she looks disappointed not to be offered his arm, especially considering that her shoes do not look made for covering long distances, they are too fine, and the mud will do them no favors at all. In any case, Grantaire watches them go, watches the older woman trail behind them at a proper distance. Fitting, he supposes. Then he turns to help the coachman.

 

+

The horses are scrubbed clean by the time the coachman insists he needs no further help, and Grantaire is fit for a meal and drink alike, so he makes no protest. Or perhaps several drinks, before he falls into a bed that will undoubtedly scratch like all hell and bear myriad traces of previous inhabitants. It is good to numb one’s body before such an adventure.

 

“It appears that we will not be able to have the carriage fixed before late tomorrow or the day after, their man for the job is taking his son to the hospital - the child is horribly afflicted, they suspect he may have a cancerous growth in his throat, the poor thing collapsed yesterday and has not regained consciousness yet.”

 

Grantaire nods, the coachman nods, they share a brief moment of sympathy.

 

“Do you know how to go about fixing our problem?”

 

Most men driving a carriage would know a thing or two about fixing it, but Grantaire is not so confident in the quota that he does not feel it still warrants asking.

 

“Certainly,” he scratches his mustache thoughtfully, “But I have not the strength to do it by my lonesome.”

 

“In the morning we will make an attempt together, then,” Grantaire decides. “I do not know about you, Monsieur, but I have little desire to stay in this place longer than I must. Paris beckons.”

 

The coachman nods at him. Grantaire leaves to procure a cup of wine.

 

+

“Do you wish to be alone for the evening?”

 

Grantaire looks up from his cup, where he had been observing the rather desperate attempt of a fly to escape the swirls of liquid seeking to drown it, to behold the young man. A cursory glance behind him does not reveal the young woman. How odd - where could she have gone? She seemed quite set on accompanying the young man tonight and occupying his attention entirely. He swiftly disposes of the wine - the muddy floor soaks it up entirely. Perhaps it will nourish the ground better than it may serve Grantaire, now that the fly has perished in it. He motions towards the second seat for the small table, then towards the yet half-full bottle of wine now between them.

 

The sun is already beginning to set, and from the lonesome tavern they have rather a stunning view across the fields and the promenade of trees leading up to the inn seemingly built up from the ground surrounding their table. If only there were not the pervasive smell of waste and decay that accompanies any province. Though, Grantaire supposes, it feels rather less cloying than the smell of Paris. There is some fresh air interspersed in this congregation of human foulness, a brief reprieve.

 

“Will you take a cup?”

 

“I am no friend of drink,” the young man shakes his head, though he does so without accusation. Perhaps he has just passed some pleasant time with the young woman, escaping the watchful eyes of her chaperone for a few minutes, and is thus in much better spirits than earlier. “In my opinion it serves me no purpose other than making me slow and lethargic, and I have no need of it. I thought I might inquire inside for some water.”

 

“I would not chance it - the coachman said they will serve you half a cup of piss here if you ask for water, though his phrasing was more polite. Pardon my coarseness.”

 

“Easily forgiven,” his opposite laughs. “The food at least was palatable, but I direly need something to wash it down.”

 

“Might I suggest their coffee? I have had a cup of that and found it quite satisfactory.”

 

“Does that not also contain water?”

 

“So it does, but it is, at the very least, boiled. I believe I heard somewhere that it neutralizes the ill-effects contaminated water may otherwise produce.”

 

“Through what reasoning?”

 

“I certainly do not understand enough of the development of illness to offer a satisfactory explanation should you wish to hear something more profound, but I have a friend in Paris who read the works of Leeuwenhook some months ago and became thoroughly convinced that the small creatures he described were responsible for the transmission of all manner of infectious diseases, more specifically that these creatures had it out for mankind.”

 

“And so your friend seeks to boil the little creatures in the hope that they will perish and leave him be?”

 

The young man is exceptionally bright, quick to grasp concepts previously foreign to him, and apparently capable of great humor when not arguing politics. Grantaire is thrilled by the revelation.

 

“Yes, something in that manner,” Grantaire laughs. “Are you familiar with Leeuwenhook at all?”

 

“I cannot say that I am,” the young man shakes his head. “My father never put much stake in my education past granting me access to his library as well as a tutor, and had no room for medicine on his shelves. He called the study of it a waste - according to him each man must face his maker when so decreed, and we cannot contest when our time is near, nor should we seek to do so as it would only leave us estranged from God. But to be sure whenever my mother fell ill he had a whole host of doctors at the ready. Such is the piety of most men, I fear.”

 

A favored son, Grantaire surmises, of a rich father. But there is sadness in his eyes when he speaks of his family, and so Grantaire does not probe further. They might stumble upon a subject so uncomfortable that the mood of the entire evening would be spoiled; he would rather not chance it, they are getting on so well, at the moment. He should rather like to see the man come alive again, see the passion light up his eyes until they appear before him like the divine light, offering counterpoints to Grantaire’s dismissal of heaven as mere fantasy.

 

“Though it seems a fascinating theory to me - this idea that little creatures might live inside of our water which we cannot see. Rather like the idea of a benevolent father in the sky who knows and sees all, if you consider it.”

 

It is blasphemous, but Grantaire supposes they strayed past that long ago. He has no extant faith this man could shake, that will not suddenly change just because this man seems a higher being to him.

 

“Oh, the former, I believe, is not merely a theory, but has been proven as fact, or as close to fact as may exist. You see, Leeuwenhook created a device with which he could greatly magnify all manner of things, and found the little creatures multiplying and swimming around in all he tested. What remains controversial is whether or not they will us harm. Whatever microscope they develop, and you hear such exciting tales of their progress in England, it cannot interview them, after all, and so their intent remains shrouded in mystery.”

 

“Ah, yes, intent is rather more difficult to be certain of, though your friend seems to have made up his mind,” the young man acknowledges, then continues: “I have tried coffee once and it has kept me up all night. I would rather manage some sleep tonight, as I slept very poorly these last few weeks.”

 

“Then I suppose we had better procure you something else,” Grantaire stands to approach the barmaid. He returns to their outside table a few minutes later, triumphantly bearing juice that has not yet been fermented.

 

“I thank you,” the young man smiles, reaching for his purse, pausing when Grantaire waves a dismissive hand, then frowning: “It cannot have been cheap, allow me to pay-”

 

“Think no more of it. Or else tell yourself that I am attempting to return to a state of being in which men share their resources freely and private property does not exist.”

 

The young man does not seem to appreciate his humor at the moment, ignoring the rather obvious attempt to bait him into another argument. He looks suspicious, come to think of it, though still friendly - open to suggestion.

 

“What do you intend to buy with this drink, monsieur?”

 

“Nothing at all, but if you insist it must be payment for something, then perhaps for the entertainment you provided while on the road?”

 

“Very well,” the young man agrees at last. Grantaire raises his glass towards him, now that he has refilled it. The wine is still sour on his tongue, but passably palatable. He misses Paris and her stores.

 

“Why have you sought out my company? I thought you well entertained by the young mademoiselle travelling with us, last I saw you.”

 

“I believe we have yet to finish our conversation. I would hear more out of you...”

 

“Ugh,” Grantaire pulls a face that makes the young man smile, “You truly wish to fight once more, rather than thoroughly charm a pretty girl? If I dare say so, you had the mademoiselle in the palm of your hand, but now I imagine we shall be summarily thrown from this establishment if you would once more treat the matter of the scoundrel Rousseau!”

 

“I have no interest in bedding her, or any of the women that cross my path,” the man shakes his head, frowning into his cup. Well now, that is certainly interesting. He catches Grantaire staring, offers a smile and: “But I believe us to be perfectly capable of amicable companionship, at the very least for tonight.”

 

Beneath the table, Grantaire feels the man’s knee knock against his thigh. He cannot help but thrill at the contact. Surely that was no accidental brush? Combined with his words, the man's intentions appear rather obvious; Grantaire is not opposed. The coachman approaches, presses a room key into the young man’s hand. He receives his thanks quickly and disappears with equal haste.

 

“Or are you so deep within your cups that you are incapable of debate?”

 

“On the contrary, alcohol makes of me an even greater rhetorician. I have been told I am Cicero reborn when I imbibe.”

 

“And your Caitiline? Upon whom do you fire your verbal barrages?”

 

“There is rather a prominent target sitting on his lazy, spoilt arse in Saint Cloud, thoroughly deserving of indiscriminate mockery, crude or refined,” Grantaire sighs. His blood turns cold when the man’s eyes seem to come alive with something far more wild than Grantaire thought possible, something less controlled than what Grantaire intended to evoke. It is dangerous to continue down this path, dangerous to tread where he should not. Some flames need not be stoked, not after so much has burned. He ought not to have spoken, but once more he finds his tongue bends not to his reasoning.

 

“But that is not what you came to discuss, is it not? Rather you would defend Rousseau to me once more? Many have tried before you, including Voltaire...' _He has said and done so many good things that we should draw the curtain over his irregularities'_ , as though abandoning one's children were merely that. I must warn you now that you will not sway me, though I concede few have been as passionate about it as you have been today.”

 

The young man scoots closer, uncaring that Grantaire continues to insult the man he so admires, possibly seeing right through his attempted recantation of radicalism, to say triumphantly: “You despise his cruelty and injustice as well, then. I admit I had been wondering, but your words up until now had been vague enough that I could only guess at your convictions.”

 

From this vantage point it feels almost as though they share each breath. He can count each eyelash that frames his pretty blue eyes, could press forward to kiss the man and suggest they try their hand at a different sort of amicable companionship than the man had in mind earlier, could twist his hand into the stunning blond curls and pull their bodies close. It is dark outside, he might even pull the man onto his lap. The way the young man leans towards him is another good indication that an advance would not be unwelcome.

 

“You have me quite wrong, monsieur. It is not personal conviction that drives me. I only relay what I have observed; some would say if a king is not hated by his subjects, he is no king at all.”

 

The young man’s voice is low, more seductive than Grantaire remembers it being a second ago, but perhaps that is his imagination, his own wishful thinking. “Feared.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“The saying is ‘if a king is not feared by his subjects…’, though your variation certainly rings true.”

 

“Such things are better left unspoken, I have learned. You would do well to take my words to heart. But you seem to desire a walk along a perilous path, monsieur.”

 

“I desire many things,” the man confesses, leaning back to take a drink. Grantaire watches. Their eyes hold. “You speak as if you have fought for freedom before.”

 

“I did no such thing, though years ago I would have been more easily persuaded to rally in the name of a cause, naive and hopeful that I was. But Paris is quite adept at disillusioning us poor souls. Surely, you will not have a hard time believing that I am a coward, monsieur, after I have rushed to correct any impression of daring I may have wrongly given, but if by some chance you still have doubts, know with certainty that I pose a danger only to myself, not to any regime, no matter how cruel or unjust.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

Their knees are still pressed together, their thighs warm against one another even as the air around them grows ever colder now that the sun has fallen behind the horizon entirely. A solitary candle burns between them, flickering in the breeze.  

 

“I would only hasten my own end if I attempted it. As would anyone else. Many better ways to pass from this earth may be listed. The monarchy, Louis, Charles, or anyone else like them, cannot be beaten, in the long run - they return like...like cancerous growths. You think you have cut them away entirely, have given them no room to grow, only for them to return in full strength to choke you off until suffocation seems a merciful end. These things are better grovelled about before being grudgingly accepted. A wheel does not suddenly stop turning because you will it to. Your Robespierre learned that in the end, and so will you if you would seek to emulate him.”

 

The young man beholds him while they empty their cups. Grantaire has not been so frank with a stranger when not at the bottom of several bottles, but there is something in him that wishes desperately to warn the young man. It is an odd sentiment, born of necessary proximity by virtue of travelling together, of briefly sharing lives.  

 

“You are very cynical a person, for one of so few years.”

 

“Do please try not to be so obviously disappointed,” Grantaire snorts, “I made no secret of it, from the very start.”

 

“I am not at all disappointed,” the young man insists, but upon seeing Grantaire’s disbelief written clearly on his face, rephrases: “That is to say - you seem to grasp that change would benefit France. It appears to me that you merely have nothing to fight for, as things stand. And as for your wheel, I have this to say: are you supposing that this wheel is a perpetuum mobile that requires no energy to continue turning? It is not so! You claim you have studied Pascal, and I am inclined to believe you, the way you spoke of him. Surely, you must also know of Newton? Of Franklin? Monsieur, the wheel may be stopped in two ways. You either refuse it the energy required to maintain its course, or… or you break it.”

 

Grantaire wants to ask what the man intends to fight for, but he thinks better of it and refuses to stoke the flame. His instinct for self-preservation arrives much too late.

 

“Rather like our carriage, you mean? Shall we go back to Rousseau? If that does not end up disappointing you, I know not what will.”

 

To his surprise, the man laughs.

 

Later, when the night has progressed and every sentence is interrupted by a yawn, the young man makes a case for retiring to bed. “Pray do not imagine we are in any way done with this conversation. There are many things I would ask you still.”

 

“I had expected nothing less,” Grantaire smiles, though he must stifle a gasp when the man reaches across the table to press his hand.

 

“I am pleased to have made your acquaintance. Shall we go to bed?”

 

“Shall _we_?”

 

“Well, unless you intend to pass the night sitting upright in front of an inn.”

 

“You mean to say…”

 

“I imagine you have procured somewhere to sleep?”

 

It is almost a relief to hear, even as it lodges in Grantaire’s chest, the confirmation that he has misinterpreted the man’s actions throughout the evening. Still, he must sleep somewhere.

 

“Oh-- I had thought…Well he gave us the key - I assumed it was to the only room not let yet or he would have...Well, to put it plainly, I suppose he meant for us to share the room, and I did not question it. I imagine most have doubled up, and so...”

 

“I cannot share my room with you, pleasant though-”

 

“No, no,” Grantaire raises his hands, signaling for him to desist. “I ought to know better than to presume. I apologize for overstepping, clearly I misread. You have a good night, monsieur!”

 

“Monsieur, I -”

 

+

 

He wakes up amidst horses suspecting he smells strongly of dung and straw now. There are worse fates, he supposes, ambling towards the carriage, where the driver is already waiting for him.

 

“Did I forget to give you and the gentleman a room key or is it that you simply prefer horses over the inn’s lodgings?”

 

They are good horses, Grantaire concedes.

 

“You did give it, only monsieur did not wish to share his room,” Grantaire dismisses, “No matter, I slept well enough in the straw. Let us to work.”

 

Grantaire is perched beneath the carriage, two nails between his lips and hammering in a third to provisionally fix the center line. His handiwork is passable, he thinks, but will do little to stop the inevitable decay of the vehicle if the coachman does not have someone professional see to it upon reaching Paris. The hind wheels certainly could do with being replaced. As would the coat of paint, though in the interest of saving expensives any cosmetic details may be overlooked.

 

“Good morning,” the young man sounds amused, appearing to squat down next to the carriage and peer at him. Grantaire hits his head, so quickly does he startle. In all likelihood he looks laughable. His shirt must be beyond salvation now that he has so long grappled with the wheels and axis in the dust. To be certain his face must be equally covered - perhaps he looks as though he has just gone up a chimney. He is certainly sweating enough to paint a believable picture of it. As for the young man, he looks resplendent, and to Grantaire’s never-ending surprise he bears a second cup in his other hand, smelling strongly of coffee.

 

“Good morning, what is this?”

 

“Coffee,” he responds, “At least I have been told that this is what I was given, though I have my doubts. This one's for you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Consider it payment for the pleasant company and conversation, or perhaps just consider it breakfast. The coachman informed me you had not taken any, and the innkeeper's wife says they are out of gruel. Admittedly, you have not missed a great delicacy.”

 

Grantaire makes a sound that, to his own ears, has the air of an old, grumbling man about it, as he attempts to take a sip of coffee. The young man stops him.

 

“You still have nails between your teeth, monsieur, do be careful.”

 

“How foolish of me,” Grantaire manages. He takes care of the matter, then asks: “I trust monsieur slept well?”

 

“Quite, yes, though I admit I worried where you would find rest. I had half a mind to return to the courtyard and invite you to share my room after all. But then I thought...”

 

Grantaire does not much want to hear it. There is no explanation necessary, the onus falls to him. He is the one that so grossly misinterpreted the contact between them. Truthfully he wonders that the man continues to talk to him, but that is easily explained with ennui caused by so long a journey. Even men whose actions are detestable to you may turn out to be interesting diversions for a while. Grantaire is familiar with the sentiment.

 

“There was another thing that kept me awake,” he begins, ducking his head rather comically.

 

“Well get it out then, you look fit to combust,” Grantaire pulls himself into a seated position so that they are eye to eye. The man’s eyes are still so unfathomably blue! Grantaire does not quite know why he supposed their intensity would dull after some time, but he realizes that he did suppose it.

 

“I had rather a strange dream about Voltaire and Rousseau alike, if you would believe it. I do not know if you recall this, but Voltaire offered him asylum after Geneva and Paris both closed their hearts to him upon reading _Émile_. Rousseau did not offer him a reply. I wondered, all night, how these two men might have lived if they had been together, had grown closer and exchanged ideas.”

 

“‘ _I will always love the author_ ,’ Grantaire recalls the words easily, ‘ _whatever he has done, and whatever he may do...Let him come here! He must come! I shall receive him with open arms. He shall be master here more than I._ ’ That is what he wrote Rousseau, was it not? What about such an invitation left room for doubt in your head?”

 

“The fact that Rousseau did not accept it. What man, cast-out and hunted, would turn his nose up at such heartfelt words, at so genuine an offer? What man, alone as Rousseau was at that moment, would turn down companionship?”

 

“Perhaps one believing the offer to have been disingenuous, or tainted by ill intentions. There were rumors, you know, that Frederick the Great had rather a great interest in Voltaire, and likewise, if you take my meaning. Perhaps Rousseau did not wish to risk having to witness, much less submit to what he perceived as such depravity.”

 

“I cannot believe that he would take issue with such a thing. He did seek Frederick’s protection for a while before accepting Hume’s invitation. You will recall he was not short on offers.”

 

“Then what befuddles your mind?”

 

“Why did he decline _Voltaire’s_ offer? To be sure their relation was founded on mutual respect despite their many disagreements. What reason might he have had not to trust him?”

 

“Shall we breach the philosophical again so early in the day? It is no secret your hero was notoriously fragile in ego - one congenital bladder deformity and suddenly the entire world is your enemy - you will recall how famously the overtures made by Diderot failed. Perhaps he felt Voltaire had slighted him in some manner, or feared his trust would be abused. There was no guarantee of his safety in Prussia, and if I recall correctly he was not shy at all about criticizing Voltaire’s benefactor. It is not a situation that breeds an easy mind.”

 

“I do not think I shall find a satisfactory answer today. These thoughts will plague me for some time. It is my habit to reflect too long on things other men might dismiss as trivial.”

 

“Then change the subject, I beg. Perhaps some distraction would serve you nicely?”

 

“Well then, since it was mentioned: Hume…I suppose you have some opinions on him as well?”

 

“Dear Lord, do you really intend to delve into that today? Very well, let us have at it, but if the ladies in our company scold us for being bores it is up to you to make overtures.”

 

(In Paris, he reluctantly alights the carriage before the young man, reminds him to don his hat in the downpour, then aids the two women with their trunks. The older woman seems to ponder tipping him, but Grantaire graciously waves the offer away before he sends her off with a man he assumes to be their footman. Why that man did not travel with them remains a mystery to him. Two ladies travelling all by their lonesome does not seem a smart thing to do if they have staff to accompany them. The young lady seems quite upset that the young man did not think to tell her goodbye - she had provided some interesting counterpoints during their extensive arguments, and Grantaire can easily admire that. He thinks to comment as much to the young man, but when he turns he sees him tenderly being greeted by a gentleman with dark curls, their hands interlocked and poised as though the brunet has greeted the blond with a tender kiss to them. Well, Grantaire supposes, it explains a great deal.)

 

And if, after agonizing over the depravity of his own thoughts for much too long, he gives in to his baser desires and seeks out a young blond of passable likeness in the streets that night, Grantaire tells himself that nothing he may do on this earth will have any lasting effect on the darkness that awaits him at the end of the road, finding the thought unbearably awful and a comfort alike. He has desecrated the memory of the young man through his actions, has dragged it into the dirt, could do nothing but submit to the desires that plagued him. Rejected thoroughly by the original, a pale Imitation must be found for his mind to settle. It is not usual for him to feel guilt about such connections - Still, he feels wretched, even as he tastes wine from plump lips and basks in the warm embrace of another being. Wretched, wretched, wretched.

 

He buries his head in his pillows and vows to forget he ever met the man.

 

+

 

**April 1825**

 

Lanterns hang above the table at which he spots Joly, Lesgles and the girls when he arrives about a half hour after the note Joly left him while he was in Gros' studio specified. It is just as well that Grantaire is known neither for his punctuality nor his reliability.

 

“Hé, Grantaire!” Joly waves with his cane, as though Grantaire could have missed their merry party and might need directions to conquer the remaining paces. “Come demonstrate to the ladies how a true master of the craft catches grapes in his mouth.”

 

“L’Aigle de Meaux - what on earth have you done with your shirt?”

 

The addressed man hiccups a laugh, explaining through the continued giggle of one of the girls: “Isolde has rather spectacular force in her throws, though perhaps not so much accuracy. My shirt was where she butchered an overripe grape she meant to throw into my gullet!”

 

The girl in question assures him: “For which I have apologized sincerely!”

 

“It adds character to the shirt, in any case, so you must promise not to trouble yourself over it any further!”

 

“Yes! Plain shirts are no longer à la mode, Capital R! Had you not heard? The ladies have decreed it, and they certainly know best the whims of fashion! I, myself, am hopeless!” Joly is, at the very least, equally drunk. Grantaire has some catching up to do.

 

“And whose company dare we delight in tonight?” Grantaire wonders at the girl perched between Joly and Lesgles. Undoubtedly very beautiful, with wide, dark eyes and equally dark hair. Her lips are full and her smile is sweet when she introduces herself.

 

“I am Musichetta.”

 

Grantaire kisses her hand, finding it improbably small and delicate.

 

“The wonderful Musichetta has introduced us to Isolde and Elisabeth, they work together at the factory!”

 

Elisabeth seems rather past joviality, perhaps she has had more than her fill, for she leans her head on the table and only vaguely raises her head to smile at Grantaire. But Isolde, next to whom he finds a seat, seems rather charming.

 

“Isolde hails from Siam,” Joly whisper-shouts across the table. “The girl’s father fell in love with a French woman and they ran off together, we have learned!”

 

“I was also born amidst considerable scandal, though it was my mother the French relations disapproved of,” Grantaire winks at her.

 

“The notion that love could ever be scandalous is ridiculous, is it not?” Isolde wonders, tapping her finger on the table nervously.

 

“Quite so,” Grantaire agrees, pouring himself a cup that he empties in one go. “Do you drink, beautiful Isolde?”

He waits for Isolde to turn away from him, to recoil and fake polite interest for as long as is required, so that he may slip into the role of scoundrel he always falls into upon realizing that he cannot captivate people even should he try, that he is tolerated at best, derided at worst. But she does not. As far as Grantaire can tell, her smile is sincere. Her skirts rustle as she sits closer to him so she may accept the cup he pours her.  

“Only a little - I fear my body is not made for much of it. I become lightheaded so quickly I fear Elisabeth might need to carry me home, and she hardly seems fit for it.”

 

“Take only a little then, but take care to savor it. ‘Tis good wine Doctor Joly has sponsored tonight.”

 

“It will be some years before I may claim that title, but I do agree about the quality of the wine; most excellent!” Joly protests half-heartedly, though he is quickly drawn back into the discussion of which color might best compliment Musichetta’s complexion. Privately, Grantaire votes for yellow, though he leaves the other men to make the argument.

 

“I believe I was promised a demonstration of your talents?”

 

This seems to capture Lesgles’ attention.

 

“Ah yes! Isolde, behold the champion of Paris! None may rival his aim, nor his skill! Throw anything at the man, he shall catch it however you demand!”

 

“High praise indeed,” Isolde laughs, picking a grape from the middle of the table and quirking an eyebrow at him.

 

Grantaire clears his throat - if he puffs out his chest as he readies himself, that is only part of the act. It demands at the very least a little dramatic posturing for the sake of entertainment.

 

He catches the grape easily, washes it down with a hefty swig of wine, and feigns bowing to the applause he receives. Joly and Lesgles both bang their cups on the table rhythmically, demanding another show.

 

It is easy to feel at home with the two of them. Tonight though, the both of them seem rather preoccupied with Musichetta. He supposes he cannot blame them for it, though he knows well that there are topics he dares not breach when women he does not know join their evenings of drinking. But as Isolde does not seem averse to him, he is content to engage her in conversation. With every minute which passes he expects her to stand, outraged, and soundly leave a handprint on his cheek, but it does not come. Grantaire cannot help but smile.  

Tonight is not made to last though, as it becomes quickly apparent that Elisabeth is no longer fit to remain out of bed, and so Isolde announces she will take on the task of bringing her home. Musichetta seems to desire to stay, so Grantaire will leave her in the care of Joly and Lesgles.

 

“I shall accompany you,” Grantaire volunteers. “I believe I will have an easier time carrying her.”

 

They are swiftly on their way.

 

“Is it that you felt out of place, sitting across the table from people so obviously smitten with one another, that you so jumped at the opportunity to see me home safe, monsieur?”

 

She poses the question as if it were an inquiry pertaining the weather of the coming days. Grantaire is brought up short.

 

“Partly that, yes. You share my reasoning?”

 

“I feel out of place half my life,” Isolde shrugs, relating a sentiment deeply familiar to Grantaire’s thoughts, “You need only look at me and know that I do not truly belong. I am happy Musichetta has found Monsieur Joly, but I worry she may allow him access to her heart too readily. Though I have only met him tonight, he does not give the impression of a serious fellow.”

 

“Ah,” Grantaire nods, repositioning the whimpering girl over his shoulder. “He was not true to form - the fewest of us are, while drunk. I cannot say how serious he is about your friend, but I can tell you I have never seen him pursue a woman before. The man grows too easily nervous when he likes someone. The drinks were an attempt at liquid courage, to be sure.”

 

“Do you often have need of it?”

 

“Less courage, though I do not possess it in spades I seldom see the need for it, but more oblivion. That is what I look for in a bottle.”

Once more he expects the girl to recoil. Most do -- Grantaire is very aware that his Habits do not endear him to people, as he has said. At this point it would almost be a relief to be pushed away, for Grantaire does not know how he would go about pursuing a girl in an earnest manner. They seldom wish to engage in more than passing flirtation with him, and what is worse, occasionally a sweet girl will try and take pity on him, seeking to place the blame on society rather than his own wretched mind. Isolde continues to surprise him, however, for she merely nods, as though she understands.

 

Isolde stops, signalling towards the building next to her. Grantaire sets Elisabeth down and places her arm about Isolde’s shoulder. There is strength in Isolde, who easily bears half of her friend’s weight.

 

“And does oblivion come when you wish for it?”

 

“Not as often as I should like it to, unfortunately.”

 

Isolde leans forward, rising onto tiptoes, to press a soft kiss onto Grantaire’s beard, as even so she cannot reach his cheek. It is a quick thing - he might have missed it if he had not paid attention. Then she bids him good night and disappears, with Elisabeth, into the house. Grantaire begins the long walk home with the notion in his head that he should like to see Isolde again.

 

+

 

“Bahorel?” Grantaire knocks on the man’s door, annoyed at being made to wait while fully aware how often he has made his friends wait. Grantaire has never claimed to be above the hypocrisy of any ordinary man. It is not Bahorel who opens the door.

 

“Giselle, you look resplendent. Where is your useless paramour?”

 

“Getting dressed,” Giselle smiles, her robe slipping over one shoulder, offering a tantalizing view of her décolleté, “I expect he will be ready to see you shortly. Will you come in?”

 

Bahorel has no qualms appearing at the door bearing nothing but his favorite doeskin trousers, presenting his overly hairy chest and pulling his long hair back into a queue Giselle ties for him with a bright red ribbon.

 

“That will not be necessary, we should be on our way. R, has it struck seven already?”

 

“It struck seven nearly twenty minutes ago,” Grantaire scoffs. “Are you ready or shall I box all by my lonesome?”

 

Giselle drapes herself across Bahorel’s chest, her small frame disappears almost entirely, set against Bahorel’s proportions. “Would that you taught him to dance half as well as you taught him to box. Then perhaps he would take me out once or twice a month.”

 

Bahorel laughs. “You may easily dance with Grantaire if the mood so takes you, I have told you so before. As for me, I prefer more lethal a dance.”

 

Giselle rolls her eyes, but presses a soft kiss to Bahorel’s chest, where he bears a scar not unlike the few spattered on Grantaire’s torso.

 

“Be careful, my love.”

 

Bahorel resists the comment undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue about his nature being diametrically opposed to any type of care, but occasionally he endeavors to spare his woman’s nerves.

 

“Have you heard the proclamations of the streets in recent days?” Bahorel wonders as they walk side by side, navigating busy streets in a manner that suggests deep familiarity with Paris, until they turn towards the ball court Bahorel’s friend allows them to appropriate after the sun has gone down.

 

“Villèle can rot in that hell he believes exists somewhere below our feet, for all I care,” Grantaire retorts. Of course Bahorel would address the matter. He does not know why he hoped they might simply talk of trivial matters.

 

“You see, Grantaire, that is the type of moral laxity the government condemns,” Bahorel needles, “ _A ‘necessary expiation after so many years of indifference or impiety’_ , they call it. ‘ _In order to make our laws respected, let us first make religion be respected_.’ What utter horseshit!”

 

“Are you truthfully surprised that they would seek to repeal every change towards freedom that has been won over the last decades? It is not the first attempt made. It will not be the last.”

 

“Someone must do something about this slow slide back into absolutism, Grantaire, you know well as I do that Charles secretly longs for such power to return to his hands. My fingers itch to wrap around a royalist throat.”

 

“So they do at all times,” Grantaire sighs, “But I recall that both of us swore we would never again take up arms against the regime in exchange for our freedom.”

 

“One,” Bahorel holds up an accompanying finger, “I swore so upon the holy bible, which I detest and hold in contempt, and therefore my oath upon it is worth nothing. Two, I swore to uphold peaceful coexistence with Louis Capet, 18th King of his name. Far as I see it my moral obligation ended when he did. I swore nothing to Charles.”

 

“It is truly a wonder you have gotten no closer to sitting your final exams in all the years I have known you, if you argue all your cases so eloquently. Truly, Bahorel, you are _very_ compelling.”

 

Bahorel laughs, but swiftly turns serious once more.

 

“Grantaire. If it should come to violence once more…”

 

“It will achieve nothing but needless death, it never has,” Grantaire predicts, feeling altogether miserable about what ought to have been a pleasant evening. “But I will be there for your little street brawl turned revolt. I always am. How funny a juxtaposition, no?”

 

+

 

He joins Joly and Bossuet as they pick Musichetta up from her work at the factory, watching as she emerges from the gates with sweat upon her brow, her little finger interlinked with Isolde’s. A grin stretches across her features upon catching sight of Joly and Lesgles. Grantaire likes to tell himself Isolde is smiling only at him. She does suggest they walk some paces behind the trio. It has been a long time since Grantaire has felt nervous in the presence of a woman, but there is a little of it in his heart now. He fears if they should continue to meet he would grow to care greatly about her opinion of him. Usually he relies on indifference to judgement - or feigned indifference, at the very least. Darkness settles over Paris’ gardens the longer they promenade, the laughter ahead of them unceasing.

 

“R?”

 

“Yes, sweet girl?”

 

“Would you like to kiss me?”

 

Grantaire takes her into his arms and kisses her quite thoroughly. She bids he stop when his hand questioningly attempts to travel towards her bosom. It is always a matter of testing the waters, when one seeks to form a connection with a person one has not paid. Truthfully, Grantaire does not often pursue women. He is not the charmer his friends are, he is not a pleasant Partner, no swell prospect. If he were a woman, or any man but himself, he would take one look at this Grantaire and turn the other way. Isolde’s boldness is rather surprising precisely because Grantaire is so very aware of his own shortcomings. Grantaire latches onto the tenderness she treats him with, he cannot help it.

 

“I should wait to be had, if it is all the same to you.”

 

“I am patient in such matters - might I ask something else of you though?”

 

(That week’s sunday, Isolde spends half the day reclined on his bed, posing nude for some of the sketches Gros expects of him in the coming weeks. Outside he hears church bells ring and thinks to himself that sacrilege has its allure, and not without reason.

 

Once he has finished the preliminary sketches, she peers over his shoulder, delighted by what she sees.

 

“Do you think you may teach me how to do draw a person with such fine attention to detail?”

 

“I will consider it, if you behave and hold still a while longer.”

 

Isolde presses a shy kiss to his cheek and dives back into his bed. Grantaire begins a second sketch, one showing her smiling rather than looking arrogant and imperious. The smile is too charming to be forgotten about, lost to history, though Grantaire is sure he cannot present it to Gros. A smile seems rather too Romantic for the great Classicist.)

+

 

**May 1825**

 

Bahorel had appeared at his door early today - much too early, if anyone should care to know Grantaire’s opinion - and demanded they spar again, as he lacked another suitable partner at the moment. Grantaire had only been persuaded when the man assured him they would be certain to imbibe, come nightfall.

 

It is on their walk through the public gardens that he catches sight of a rather familiar face. At first he believes he must be mistaken - perhaps his mind has conjured an astounding likeness and projected it onto some poor soul, but further observations lead Grantaire to believe that it is the man from the carriage, walking with the gentleman that met his arrival in Paris. Their arms are laced together, their heads bent close in rather obvious a show of intimacy, their conversation lively. Grantaire tries quickly to avert his eyes, but he is not quick enough. The man has spotted him, has blinked twice, as if to assure himself that he is truly beholding Grantaire, and then quirked his lips, as if -- well, it almost looks as though he were smiling at Grantaire, but that thought is ridiculous. A mockery, perhaps? Grantaire feels as though the man has, with one look, seen through Grantaire and found out what Grantaire did after they parted upon arriving in Paris, what Grantaire has imagined on occasion might have happened if the man had invited him to share a room after all. How dreadful to be caught in such a manner, even though the man has no way of knowing Grantaire’s shame! Still, now that they are very much aware of one another, Grantaire feels compelled to offer a smile in return, accompanied by a nod.

 

Bahorel seeks to pull him elsewhere, inadvertently thwarting what could almost be supposed as an attempt of the young man to engage Grantaire in conversation, and so Grantaire touches his hat and then, at last, is able to avert his gaze.

 

(“You have been slacking,” Bahorel chastises when he knocks Grantaire to the floor. “Consider putting down the drink more often and taking up the staff in its stead.”)

 

+

 

He spots the blond monsieur’s companion  - or, better said, his lover; Grantaire did not think he was mistaken in supposing the man might be amorously drawn to men, but if he already had so pleasant a fellow waiting for him, it is easy to see why he would balk at the prospect of allowing Grantaire near him - when he goes by his lonesome to visit the Musain, late one night in May.

 

Joly and Lesgles are both busy at the moment with their respective studies, and Bahorel is with his woman and so cannot be moved to rise from his bed. It annoys Grantaire, but drinking companions as a rule are not hard to come by - he has plenty of those. It is friends he seems to lack. Soon enough, as predicted, acquaintances have flocked to his table. A game of dominoes is started, wine is poured and enjoyed. That is when he spots the young man’s companion, leaning on the counter and smiling as he talks to the new serving girl. When Grantaire asked earlier she introduced herself as Lorelei, with a most charming curtsy and raise of her apron to accompany the action, and a twinkle in her eyes. Grantaire thinks she will do well here, to be sure. She certainly seems thoroughly enticed by the prospects of this gentleman, entirely ignoring the atrociously colored coat he wears and instead gazing deep into his eyes.

 

He says something to make her laugh and wag her finger at him, though the rebuke seems anything but stern. To his right, someone shoves Grantaire to remind him that it is his turn in the game. When he looks up once more he finds the gentleman has left the serving girl and is instead making his way over to his table. The gentleman greets Lammert, to his left, with a genial handshake.

 

“Courfeyrac!” Lammert’s voice booms across the room, “You old dog, you! Come join our game while I buy the next round.”

 

“With relish,” the gentleman - a monsieur Courfeyrac, it would seem - consents, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he takes the recently vacated seat to Grantaire’s left. It is then that he meets Grantaire’s eye. For a second his brow is thoughtful, then he seems to have an epiphany, of a sort.

 

“Monsieur, are we acquainted?”

 

“Not to my knowledge,” Grantaire shakes his head.

 

“Though Grantaire might simply not remember you,” Lammert returns, bringing a new bottle of wine with him, “The man is wild in spirit and spirits!”

 

“You seem rather familiar, truth be told,” Courfeyrac muses.

 

“I frequent the same café as you,” Grantaire shrugs, “Perhaps you have seen me around. I have been told my face is impossible to forget and so I apologize for any nightmares it may have caused.”

 

“You do yourself a great discredit,” Courfeyrac laughs, “There is certainly something captivating about you, I see it clearly now.”

 

The second part is said in low tones - it seems almost as though the man is talking to himself, ignorant of anyone possibly listening in on them.

 

+ 

Isolde takes longer to undress today, taking care to ask Grantaire question upon question so that, to display politeness while asking something rather impolite of her, he is obliged to maintain eye contact and so watch her disrobe where he would otherwise afford her privacy until she has taken position.

 

“The fabric on the bed, yes, quite right, sweet girl, the red silk… drape it over your shoulder, if you would.”

 

“Am I to play the Roman or the Greek today?”

 

“A goddess, so I suppose you shall play both,” Grantaire corrects, playing with her limbs a little until he is satisfied by her posture.

 

“Which one?” Isolde wonders, eyes wide and curious.

 

“I had thought to make you Athena. I had not the winged helmet nor the armor necessary for the depiction though, and so you will be Athena after having successfully defeated your enemies.”

 

“You must alter my features then, must you not?”

 

“I will do no such thing,” Grantaire huffs. “You are divine in your own right, sweet girl, and no mortal can claim to know the true face of a goddess. It may very well be yours if I say it is so.”

 

Isolde claps a hand over her mouth to hide her smile, making a good attempt at returning to the stern, regal posturing Grantaire intended, but pausing intermittently to break into a delighted smile.

 

“What plans have you, for tonight?”

 

“A new acquaintance has invited me to dinner on the other side of the Seine.”

 

“Have I met him?”

 

“His name is Courfeyrac - I cannot give you more than that, as I am yet to find out for myself. He is pleasant enough, I believe you would like him. Most women do.”

 

“Most women enjoy men who treat them well.”

 

“The history of marriage suggests differently.”

 

“You say that as though women have been given endless leeway as to whom they shall marry.”

 

“Forgive me, you are right, of course. I meant only to say that Courfeyrac is reputedly very charming.”

 

“And I meant only to say that you are a man who treats me well, despite your occasional coarseness,” Isolde teases, turning onto her stomach, chin resting on her hands. The silk wraps around her body so elegantly - Grantaire ought to draw her like this one day.

 

“You have not tried to kiss me again, since we shared kisses in the gardens,” Isolde surmises, drawing his attention back to her. “Why is that?”

 

“Perhaps because you told me you did not wish to be had? Did I not say I possessed patience?”

 

“Indeed you did,” Isolde agrees, twisting on the sheet, her body stretching delightfully. The study of her body really is fascinating. “Is it that you do not desire me any longer?”

 

Rather it is that Grantaire does not wish to lose her affection. He is offered tenderness so rarely…

 

“Sweet girl I could go on at lengths about the thoughts the sight of you inspires in me, but you would think my feelings base.”

Much better to deflect,he thinks. She stands, walks up to Grantaire. The red silk slips off her body, pooling at her feet. One of her hands bids Grantaire to put his sketches aside, the other makes work of his laces.

 

Isolde kisses him, tenderly.

 

+

Courfeyrac has his lodgings in the more elegant part of town. All the way there Grantaire wonders why he ever agreed to meet the man. But he _had_ drunkenly agreed, and it seems too cowardly even for him to back out now. So Grantaire has donned his best waistcoat - a deep mossy green Isolde assured him looked splendid, set against his eyes - shined his shoes, and prepared to brave the evening ahead of him. Grantaire passes an elderly couple in the hallway as he takes the stairs two by two, inclining his head at them.

 

Monsieur Courfeyrac opens the door in shirtsleeves, his waistcoat open and his necktie rather elegantly disheveled. There is something about his curls that suggests someone may have recently run their hands through them with abandon.

 

“How fortunate that you made it! And right on time as well, marvellous!”

 

“Yes, well,” Grantaire shrugs, uncertain how to proceed. But Courfeyrac seems to be ignorant of the awkwardness that pervades Grantaire’s mind and spills over into his words. He desires a cup of wine - or perhaps ten. Courfeyrac looks him over once, then smiles widely.

 

“Do come in, please! Hang your coat right there, if you would - I shall procure some wine.”

 

Ah, Grantaire thinks, now that is more like it. It is a sign of a good host, that he can so easily read Grantaire’s wishes. Though, Grantaire supposes, it is not a leap for anyone who knows him in some way to guess that he wishes to drink. Most nights that is a safe bet.

 

“Félix, do you suppose you might read something over for me before we take dinner, I fear I shall otherwise be cr- _Oh_.”

 

Grantaire turns around to find the young man, his own waistcoat and cravat tied and arranged to perfection, his hair entirely unruffled, appearing from what he can only suppose is the apartment’s bedroom. Wonderful.

 

“Monsieur,” the young man greets, rearranging the stack of papers in his hands so that he has a hand to spare. For a second he seems to war with himself on whether or not to approach Grantaire and offer his hand to shake. He is spared having to make a decision when Courfeyrac returns from the kitchen and presses a cup Grantaire gratefully accepts into his hands, occupying them effectively as long as Grantaire grasps it with both. By the nature of the twinkle in his eyes Grantaire is given the distinct impression that he has been set up, has fallen victim to the man’s scheming. He would think it cruel, only Courfeyrac truly does not seem the sort.

 

“Monsieur-”

 

“I am afraid I do not recall your name,” the young man confesses hastily, clenching his free hand by his side.

 

“I do not believe we ever arrived at introductions, come to that.”

 

“Marvelous,” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, though his face still split into a smile. “I do not know why I ever expected differently. Grantaire - this is Enjolras, my oldest friend. Enjolras, allow me to introduce Monsieur Grantaire, my newest acquaintance. I first met him at a café some weeks ago and thought you should like to meet him, though I now believe the two of you are already acquainted?”

 

Enjolras. What a name! How fitting, how divine it sounds. It is appropriately regal, bestowing a final touch to the man’s grandeur, completing the picture of him perfectly. Enjolras spares a second to glare at Courfeyrac for reasons unknown to Grantaire, before his tension seems to abate. He shakes his head, fondness unmistakable in his eyes as he beholds Courfeyrac.

 

“Pleased to make your proper acquaintance, at last,” Enjolras now crosses the distance between them to shake his hand. His grip is firm, he seems sure of himself though Grantaire cannot ignore the nervousness in his eyes. The man is uncomfortable around him, and Grantaire can divine the reason for it with ease. He ought not to have come here. In all likelihood he would not have, had he been aware he would be having dinner with Courfeyrac and his paramour.

 

Courfeyrac smiles into his cup and ushers them towards the table. Grantaire does not miss how Enjolras’ elbow digs into Courfeyrac’s side, nor does he miss how it only produces a grin on Courfeyrac.

 

“So, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac wonders after a few moments of silence pass, during which Grantaire tries to avoid Enjolras’ insistent gaze by staring into his cup. “When you met Enjolras, did you have a chance to speak of your métier, or did that too fall by the wayside, as introductions did?”

 

“No,” Grantaire shakes his head, “I do not believe it ever came up.”

 

“I feel awful now, that I did not think to ask amidst our debates,” Enjolras admits in a gentle tone, smiling when Grantaire meets his eye at last. “I had guessed you to be a student of philosophy, perhaps, and if not that I thought you may own a bookstore - you seemed quite well-read, so much so it nigh put me to shame.”

 

“Not so,” Grantaire assures him, “I am a student of Gros, though not for much longer, I hope.”

 

“I am not familiar with the name.” Enjolras’ brow is furrowed.

 

“The man who created the large piece in your father’s study, my friend,” Courfeyrac explains. “Enjolras has never been afforded the opportunity to study art. His father thought it a frivolous pastime and I am afraid it is one of the few things he passed onto his son, to my dismay.”

 

“You are a painter?” Enjolras raises his eyebrows. Grantaire does not know if he is impressed or disappointed, but he does not truly wish to know.

 

“I paint, yes, though nothing of any worth. Frivolous stuff, trivial, as Courfeyrac has already explained. Mostly I exist on my father’s generous subsidies and squander my few remaining youthful years in debauchery and drink.”

 

Courfeyrac laughs.

 

“Enjolras loves to accuse me of the same vice, though at the very least you are nearly done and the law is beset on torturing me for many years to come with her intricacies and fallacies. Though, I confess, monsieur, that I ought not say so too loudly, for Enjolras has ambitions to study the law as well and I ought not to put him off the subject with my complaints.”

 

“Have you enrolled, as you planned to?”

 

Grantaire recalls the subject coming up briefly, just before they reached Paris.

 

“I made an attempt, but they have not gotten back to me yet. It is...most frustrating. I shall have missed most of the semester, if not all of it, by the time I am granted access, if it should continue thus. That is, if they accept me at all.”

 

“Many a night I have spent deep in my cups with one of the administrators at the law faculty. If you would like to -- well, we may be able to inquire as to the progress of your application if we pay him a visit.”

 

Courfeyrac smiles down at the meat on his plate as though it has brought him great delight - perhaps it has, but Grantaire cannot figure out why the man is delighted at the prospect of his lover gallivanting around Paris with another man. Perhaps he is certain that Grantaire cannot measure himself against him.

Enjolras certainly seems to wish Grantaire were not here at all, but his response is enthusiastic despite sounding baffled:

“I should like that very much.”

 

(Grantaire does not expect to be invited over again, but Courfeyrac approaches him with astounding regularity, always genial and so very confusing.)

 

+

 

“Monsieur,” Grantaire greets Enjolras when he spots him at the gardens, where they agreed to rendezvous before seeking out the law faculty together. They shake hands. Enjolras’ voice is nervous when he greets him in turn.

 

Enjolras looks rather anxious as well, to accompany the tone of voice. It does not abate even after Neraude hears the name ‘Enjolras’ pronounced so succinctly and produces a letter of acceptance that was forgotten about. It has gathered dust. Grantaire would laugh at the sorry state of the administration if he were not with Enjolras at the moment.

 

“Apologies, monsieur, it should have been sent weeks ago! Here you are!”

 

When they step back into the streets, Enjolras closes his eyes briefly and releases a deep breath he must have held for some time. His shoulders slump. A second later he straightens once more.

 

“Do you have some time for a promenade, monsieur?” He wonders, “I have some things I would hear your opinion on, particularly regarding Villèle and his politics…”

 

“I have some time,” Grantaire agrees, wondering why the man would go against inclination to spend more time with him than necessary. “But you must promise to keep your voice down, if we are to speak of such things in public.”

 

“Certainly. Do you think me some kind of amateur?”

 

They walk along the gardens. Grantaire wonders if he ought to offer Enjolras his arm, but he does not dare. Once already he has supposed too much into their conversation and paid for his arrogance. He settles for observing Enjolras. But if the man is not observing those that cross their paths, he is looking at Grantaire. Enjolras has not a single glance to spare the flowers, although Grantaire thinks they are wildly enticing in their full bloom and finds himself pausing on occasion to admire them. All around them the colors spring to life and are ignored by the man who would rather ask Grantaire is he believes Villèle will make a serious attempt to enforce the laws he has written into place.

 

“I am in your debt, Monsieur,” Enjolras admits, when Grantaire has brought him back to the rooms he shares with Courfeyrac. “Not only for the stimulating conversation you provided, but for what you have done for me today.”  

 

“Speak no more of it,” Grantaire dismisses,“Though if you feel a debt must be repaid, I will have you know I greatly enjoy flowers.”

 

“Why is that?” Enjolras’ curiosity is genuine, dispelling worries within Grantaire that he may have been too bold, his words unwelcome. He had considered adding a wink, but buried the thought swiftly.

 

“It was said only in jest...but if you must know, they are pretty to behold, smell wonderful and do not complain about being painted over and over again until at last they rot, which makes them excellent gifts. A good day to you, Monsieur.”

 

+

**June, 1825**

 

The streets run red with blood in June, when Grantaire leaves his rooms after three days spent in bed. Joly had appeared by his door, his eyes red and his mouth covered by cloth that reminded Grantaire oddly of man caught in a sandstorm.

 

“Isolde has contracted Cholera,” Joly had said, breathless, “As has Musichetta, but Isolde asked to see you, so here I am. Do come quickly.”

 

He spends a day attempting to feed her soup and another half day holding Isolde’s hand as she heaves and grows ever weaker. When her eyes close at last, it appears to Grantaire that some peace has returned to her body. It is only a vessel once more, empty.

 

Grantaire mourns her, attends the funeral arrangements made for her and the seventeen other factory girls who died of cholera in the past few days. It feels shameful to stands shoulder to shoulder with mourning friends and lovers when he only knew her so short a while. Paris giveth and it taketh away, Granaire thinks and weeps. He returns to his apartments and consumes too many cups of wine to count. Lesgles kicks his door open after three days, face contorted in concern but relieved when Grantaire exhibits none of the dreaded symptoms. Grantaire is not too proud to admit Lesgles finds him in a pile of his own vomit. It has happened before. If Grantaire were his own friend, he would be disgusted, but Lesgles merely looks optimistic, as is his habit: “Musichetta is on the mend, at last. Joly is with her now. I had hoped you would not quit us in exchange.”

 

“She is only being given boiled water, I assume?”

 

“You know how fussy our revered Doctor to be grows, confronted with illness. She indulges him admirably, the girl is quite a wonder...”

 

“Leeuwenhook may have been right after all,” Grantaire snorts, “Has Joly thought to write on it?”

+

 

Musichetta looks frailer than she did before illness took ahold of her, but there is once more color in her cheeks and her hand does not shake from weakness when she comes to visit him. It becomes apparent though that she is currently not fit to work in the factory.

 

“For the moment I am lodging with Joly, though I feel a dreadful imposition upon the man. He says he enjoys having someone in the house when he returns from his studies, but he has not grown used to me yet - I unintentionally frightened him when one night he came back quite late and heard me address him.”

 

“He writes me that he is beyond thrilled to have you so near him, madame. Though, certainly, we all wish the circumstances were not so… grim.”

 

“Twenty more girls in the factories have passed. I knew them all. Some better than others, I concede, but I could put a name to all of them. And now they are gone, the lot of them,” Musichetta wipes a tear from her eye, dabs at her nose with a handkerchief bearing the initials T.J.

 

“Isolde in particular… Monsieur Grantaire I do not know how I shall be happy again without her, though Joly and Lesgles both are so tenacious in trying to lift my spirit. She was my sister, in all the ways which counted.”

 

“Indeed she was taken in her prime,” Grantaire agrees, unsure what to say. He misses Isolde. Sometimes he imagines he will call on her, imagines how he will position her for his sketches, what stories they may share, only to realize that such a thing is no longer possible. Death is the longest of all goodbyes, Grantaire thinks. If all that awaits him on the other side is darkness, he will never see her again. There will come a time when he will be forced to let everyone he knows go. How does a person prepare for such inevitable dread?

 

If you are within the nothing on the other side, engulfed in it, he supposes it is easy. If there is nothing, nothing may be felt. But those left behind… how can they ever prepare for such absences? How can they be expected to go on knowing they have no one?

 

“I found this among her things,” Musichetta offers him a folded piece of sketching paper. It opens to reveal a half-done portrait of Grantaire, a cup poised in his hand, his eyes narrowed at it and his lip curled in an amused smile. Pain chokes him. Was this how she saw him? It was certainly more than he deserved. Her kindness, her affection, Grantaire deserved none of it and yet took all he could get.

 

The portrait shows Grantaire: loved.

 

It is too much to bear.

 

Before he knows it a tear has dropped onto the paper. Musichetta takes his hand and presses it. Later, once they have shared a singular cup in honor of Isolde’s memory, he asks her about Joly and Lesgles.

 

“I do not know how I should ever choose when they are both delightful,” she rubs her temples, “They seem to take joy in charming me though, sometimes I think they desire to make a competition of it. It is entirely vexing.”

 

“Pardon me if this is too forthright - have you considered that they may not ask you to make a choice?”

 

“But that is impossible!” Musichetta smiles at the thought, evidently dismisses it straight away. Grantaire feels it is not up to him to inform her it must not be.

 

+

 

Paris settles as the month draws to an end. Graves once more grow shallow, tailored to individuals rather than dead masses. Père Lachaise loses some of the more pervasive foul odor, though a baseline of decay must always remain to serve as a cautionary tale to those who remain alive in the aftermath, that only strict piety can ensure that the immortal Soul may escape the rot. Grantaire is once more by himself at the Musain, having declined an offer of dominoes to instead sketch.

 

He wishes he could still paint Isolde, but whenever he looks at the dramatic pieces he submitted to Gros that featured her, he feels sick to his stomach. The only one that is acceptable to behold is the clandestine sketch he made of her laugh. He has tried to sketch her from memory, but his memory fails him.

 

Was it too much to have been afforded a companion for longer than a few months? Must he tumble from the heavens, an Icarus unaware of his own hubris? Is it too much to wish to be loved? Does he not even deserve that?

(He must not think so, he knows. He must try and be glad that was afforded the chance to know her in the first place.)

 

“Capital R!” Bahorel’s voice booms across the room. Grantaire hastens to close his portfolio. The slender form of Enjolras is trailing behind Bahorel, his face set in a frown. Grantaire has not seen him in some weeks, had dreaded to hear news of him, dreaded to find out he may have been swept away as so many have. That it is not so takes a stupendous amount of pressure off Grantaire’s chest.

 

“It is good to see you well, Bahorel. How fares Giselle?”

 

“Called back to her husband due to mounting pressure from their families,” Bahorel sighs, “I believe she intends to make amends with him.”

 

“Waves of sickness have a habit of turning people pious and good for a brief spell for their likeness to apocalyptic end times. She will be back within your arms in a year, fret not, I am certain of it.”

 

Bahorel seems rather nonchalant at the prospect. Instead he turns to Enjolras and gestures towards Grantaire.

 

“This is the man I spoke of.”

 

“You promised me someone like-minded, Bahorel. I am familiar enough with this man to know we see eye to eye on almost nothing.”

 

Then he addresses Grantaire, shakes his hand. “It is good to see you nonetheless, Grantaire. You are looking well, considering the circumstances.”

 

“You as well - how fares Courfeyrac?”

 

It is only natural to ask after every man’s loved one, is it not? He inquired after Giselle, it would surely be suspicious if he did not do the same for Enjolras. And he does think fondly on Courfeyrac. Certainly they are on their way to becoming friends rather than acquaintances.

 

“Confused as to why I demanded he boil his water on the stove before having a drink, but obliging to my wishes and so perfectly healthy where many are not.”

 

“I am glad to hear it.”

 

“How is it that you know Grantaire but do not know of his radical past?” Bahorel inquires, pulling up a chair for himself and bidding Enjolras do the same. “I believe you would not dismiss his views as antithetical to yours if you but knew…”

 

“Bahorel, truly, let us not--”

 

But Enjolras’ interest is piqued now, so he will be told. Bahorel laughs, slinging an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder companionably.

 

“Have you an inkling of what Paris’ street were like in the spring of 1822? This man, not even a law student, mind you, joined our protest because he knew in his heart that Louis’ injustices could no longer be borne. We fought side by side for two days until we were overcome.”

 

“Two hundred men arrested, several more killed, and nothing to show for it except a pathetic plea to my father to buy our freedom,” Grantaire corrects, because he likes the hint of admiration in Enjolras’ eyes too much while detesting it even more.

 

“Grantaire, you never as much as made mention of it,” Enjolras seems intrigued. “Why, you told me you never fought! The facts lend themselves well to the supposition that you deliberately sought to antagonize me!”

 

Grantaire cannot take it.

 

“Grantaire, do not tell me you have already driven this young man away with your cynicism! I thought to add him into our merrily intoxicated group.”

 

“Monsieur does not drink, Bahorel. Excuse me, I think I must retire for the night.”

 

+

“Grantaire!”

 

He pauses, not least of all because he does not wish for Enjolras to have to run after him through darkened streets. If the man wishes to talk, they shall talk, but he had been hoping Enjolras would leave it at that, would instead converse with Bahorel and so become swiftly disillusioned in regards to Grantaire. Though perhaps not, as Bahorel still seems to mistakenly believe him equally daring as he was in 1822.

 

“Monsieur,” Grantaire touches his hat. He tries to straighten his spine, but he is afraid he still makes quite a sorry figure, set in contrast against such a man. Anyone would pale in comparison.

 

“Have I offended you in some manner? I confess I am not aware of any transgressions, but if there have been some, be sure they were unconsciously done.”

 

“You have given no offense in the slightest, monsieur.”

 

That is not entirely true, but he has given none that Grantaire did not entirely deserve or provoke.

 

“Then why do you quit the café the very second I attempt to engage you in conversation? I can think of no reason for your flight - and you know how I so obsess over reason.”

 

“Perhaps…” Grantaire stops before he says too much. Enjolras comes closer, eyes concerned.

 

“Perhaps, what?”

 

“You are made uneasy in my presence, and so I thought I would spare you. I would not flee from it if I thought you would not… Look, I know I was too bold, that night at the inn, and I regret having made the assumption that you would be amenable to my….well, monsieur, I did not wish to give the impression that I would force my presence upon you, that is all.”

 

“You are wrong.”

 

“I frequently am, according to monsieur, that has been made abundantly clear. Which words exactly do you take issue with?”

 

“I should like to speak to you again, Monsieur. The dinners we have taken together with Courfeyrac have been something I look forward to. I would not have you run away from me - if you were annoyed by my person, that would be a different matter, but it does not seem to be the case.”

 

“What interest could you possibly have in hearing my ramblings? They are nothing which you cannot reasonably expect of any drunk on the street.”

 

“Give yourself some credit, monsieur, you are passably coherent most days,” Enjolras makes a dismissive gesture. “As for your impression that I was not amenable to -- there is something which you do not know…”

 

Bahorel comes looking for Enjolras, they jump apart. Grantaire excuses himself swiftly. This time Enjolras does not follow.

 

(The next time Grantaire seeks to spar with Bahorel, Enjolras arrives alongside him. He works, reading through something which Bahorel has written, as they seek to knock the other off their feet. Grantaire glances at him more frequently than he would admit, should anyone ask. It is a small mercy that no one does.)

+

 

**July 1825**

 

The sun turns Enjolras’ blond curls into liquid gold. Today he once more wears the midnight blue waistcoat Grantaire first met him in, and the image is captivating. Briefly Grantaire wonders if the man would ever pose for him, but he decides he will not even ask. It is a silly thing, but there is something that begs caution, now that his previous muse has gone to her death after he preserved her likeness. Grantaire is not a superstitious man, he likes to believe, but when it comes to Enjolras he should nevertheless like to be careful.

 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras smiles, leaning towards him to shake his hand.

 

“I received your letter,” Grantaire holds it up as though to offer proof. “Gros was rather befuddled as to why a Gamin would seek out his studio. What is it you wished to talk to me about?”

 

“Do you have time to spare?”

 

Grantaire glances at his pocket watch. “Some hours, yes.”

 

He does not mention that his plans for the evening include a bottle of cheap wine and his sketchbook.

 

“Excellent!” Enjolras nods, beginning to walk along the Seine in a leisurely pace. Grantaire falls into step with him easily, though some confusion remains. He is beginning to sound like Enjolras, he supposes, when he wonders doggedly at the man’s reasoning for wishing to meet him.  “Courfeyrac’s sister is visiting - have you heard? She appeared on our doorstep three days ago, having persuaded her uncle to take her to Paris. It was quite a surprise.”

 

“Does her presence displease you?”

 

“Not at all,” Enjolras shakes his head, “I have known her most of my life - her company is easily kept, she is a sweet girl. It is just that when she arrived, Courfeyrac was in bed with his mistress, so now Élodie has taken to teasing him for it relentlessly and the poor man is quite embarrassed. They are tiptoeing around addressing the matter seriously and as both are rather passionate people, our rooms have, as of late, turned unbearably loud.”

 

“Courfeyrac’s... mistress?”

 

“Yes,” Enjolras nods, narrowing his eyes at a ship passing them by, “She serves the couple that lives below us, surely you have seen her when you came by, once or twice? I believe she cooked dinner for us while you joined us, last month?”

 

Grantaire has seen her. It is just that he had not expected her to be at all entangled with Courfeyrac.

 

“You seem surprised. I thought his reputation as a charmer was well-known. It is not entirely unfounded, after all, though he takes care to be a gentleman about it.”

 

“I… well, it is nothing, but I suppose I thought you and Courfeyrac to be…”

 

Enjolras’ eyes widen.

 

“No,” he shakes his head decisively, “No, we are _not_.”

 

Grantaire does not quite know what to say in response to that. He wishes he had not brought it up, for now Enjolras seems to have no intention of laying the matter to rest before some things have been made abundantly clear.

 

“You have been under that impression for some time now, have you not?”

 

“Ever since you jumped from the carriage into his arms, yes.”

 

“I did no such thing.”

 

“It was rather rainy that day, my vision was blurred a little, but I assure you that you did run into his arms.”

 

“He is a dear friend to me, nothing less and nothing more. I had never even considered taking him for my lover.”

 

“But you have considered taking lovers?”

 

“Briefly, once,” Enjolras shrugs, “I do not entertain such notions lightly. By now you must know that. In any case: I sought you out to inform you that as Élodie wishes to see Geneva, Courfeyrac and myself will take her there. Perhaps also to some other cities in the German States, for a few weeks.”

 

“Is that your only reason for calling on me?”

 

Enjolras bites the inside of his cheek, before he relents. “I would like to ask your opinion on the clash that occurred between Hume and Rousseau, once they arrived in England.”

 

Grantaire is not convinced, but he plays along.

 

“Walpole’s letter, you mean to say?”

 

“Can it only have been that? Are cordial relations eroded so easily? And do you suppose Rousseau ever regretted that he had not instead taken Voltaire up on his offer?”

 

“We shall be engaged in debate much too long if you wish all these questions answered today.”

 

“You did tell me you had hours to spare, I made sure of it.”

 

“Ah! Trickster, thou hast deceived me!”

 

Enjolras shrugs, his hands buried in his coat pockets. He does not deny it.

 

“ _There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy_ ,” Grantaire snorts. Enjolras cocks his head, brow ever furrowed.

 

“I am afraid I do not take your meaning, nor am I familiar with the work you quote. Shakespeare, I presume?”

 

“You presume correctly. I mean to say that perhaps you would do better to occasionally enjoy what life has to offer than worry about the quarrels dead men may have had amongst each other. You already do more than your fair share of worrying over the fates of those yet drawing breath.”

 

“If you discover the reason for strife it may serve as an example to avoid such clashes in the future, the two are intimately connected, and I would learn all I can from lives already spent,” Enjolras shrugs. “But as I have said -- if you would wish to speak to me of anything else…”

 

Grantaire delves back into Hume.

 

(“Might I see you again when I return?” Enjolras asks him when they say their goodbyes.

 

“If you so wish it.”

 

Grantaire watches Enjolras smile and nod before he disappears into the rooms he shares with Courfeyrac.)

 

+

**August 1825**

 

“Do you wish to be alone?”

 

Grantaire looks up from his fraying blanket, spread carelessly in the public gardens, to behold Enjolras.

 

“You are returned from Geneva?”

 

“Evidently,” Enjolras gestures towards his person, then reiterates. He sits down next to Grantaire when Grantaire manages a nod he hopes comes across as at least moderately pleasant.

 

“Unfortunately, there is actual work to be done today, so I apologize in advance for being dull.”

 

“Just as well. I had intended to read.”

 

“More Pascal?”

 

“I finished his works months ago,” Enjolras shakes his head, but does not reveal what hides on the pages of the lecture which he does open. Grantaire gives in to temptation and peers over his shoulder. Enjolras notices, turns his head to the side. His nose is quite pointy, Grantaire thinks, admiring the slope of it before realizing he ought not to force such proximity upon the man. Once more Grantaire feels as though they share each breath, once more it is too much to bear with a clear head.

 

“It does not appear to me that you are working, Grantaire.”

 

“Well spotted. What are you reading?”

 

“Your _Hamlet_ ,” Enjolras admits. “Courfeyrac owns many of Shakespeare’s works. I had always considered them trivial.”

 

“Then why, pray tell, have you thought to read them now?”

 

“I took your advice to heart after you quoted him so beautifully, and so far I have been pleasantly surprised. Geneva and the weeks spent outside of Paris taught me the importance of your words. You are right that often I do not take the time I might need, to unwind, to enjoy life for what it is, to enjoy people as they deserve. I so often think that I must do everything, must achieve everything, right at this very second.”

 

Grantaire closes his portfolio and draws away from Enjolras. Too long they have spent looking at one another. He does not wish to make Enjolras uncomfortable.

 

“And how has the attempt worked out for you?”

 

Enjolras laughs, gently, as though Grantaire were a source of uncontested happiness. “Very poorly. Our landlady in Geneva thought to try and teach Élodie the intricacies of a flower language beginning to develop in England. I did my best to listen and take it all in, but I confess what I took from it was that it might serve well to establish a code, as they had during the Revolution in America, in the event of rebellion in Paris.”

 

“I have heard of the language,” Grantaire nods, “Trust you to be incapable of putting down your querulous thoughts for even so brief a time.”

 

Enjolras shrugs, closing his book and resting on his elbows as he looks up at Grantaire.

 

“I have come to accept that part of myself as incorrigible. But I thought of you all the while, I must also admit - how you enjoy flowers so greatly. I thought you might appreciate such a language. It seems rather Romantic.”

 

“Rather. But of course it is all nonsense. There is nothing wrong with valuing any flower simply for being useful or pretty. Queer things, the ideas mankind has sometimes to convince itself that there is meaning in anything, are they not?”

 

“Do you suppose there is a way to send flowers to Charles that would urge him to develop a regard for human lives?”

 

“I suppose if you wish most fiercely for your bouquet to have such a meaning, it will take it on out of the deepest respect for your wishes, so high a power do you command over nature.”

 

“Do not tease.”

 

“Then do not joke about such matters.”

+

 

Joly and Lesgles are already awaiting him when he enters the Corinth just as the sun sets. The letter that came for him this morning is crumpled in his pocket - he has no desire of looking upon it ever again. _Senseless pursuits. Foolish expenses. Irresponsible behavior._ Yes, yes, he has heard it all, and he cares not an inch to be told once more what he already knows.

 

His limbs feel heavy, his mind even more so.

 

“Capital R! What has you looking so down?”

 

“News from the beloved father, as always,” Grantaire sighs, gratefully accepting the first cup of the evening. The first of many, he hopes. The wine burns, but it is not enough by far. It is not enough, as Grantaire is not enough. Though at least, the wine does not imagine it might attempt to be enough. Oh, to be like wine, to exist and do nothing else, to have no heart, no soul!

 

Joly and Lesgles seem to realize his desperation, for they signal for absinthe quickly.

 

“Tonight, we will be merry, Grantaire. Come what may tomorrow. Hé, you may even sleep on my recamière, if you are to be cut off after all, but your father has always continued to support you in the past even through his perceived disappointments. We will see you through!”

 

Grantaire attempts admirably to hide the tear that drops onto the table. It is not that he is ashamed - merely overwhelmed. How laughable the idea is that he should balk to show his friends tears when they have seen much worse from him.

 

“Good, good,” Lesgles claps him on the shoulder. “Now, let us drink!”

 

(He believes Courfeyrac joins them, some hours afterwards. Grantaire considers that he may have entirely botched the introductions, but he is sure Courfeyrac is fully capable of introducing himself. If it is Courfeyrac that has appeared in the Corinth and not some vision in yellow with an awful ribbon around his hat.)

 

+

 

“Yes, yes, let off, I beg of you! I am coming!” Grantaire groans in response to the insistant knocking on his door. The sun is high already, it would seem he has slept through most of the day. There is nothing truly unusual about it - what is another wasted day, after all? It is not as though he would have served an admirable purpose, had he gotten up at sunrise with the rest of Paris. At least, this way, he has not spent his day lonesome and intoxicated in his apartment. Instead he will spend what is left of it lonesome and sick to his stomach in his apartment, provided he may persuade the disturbance to be on their merry way again soon.

 

In all likelihood it is his landlord, come to berate him for having relieved himself in the flower pots out front when he returned home again, as is his habit. Truthfully the man ought to be grateful for the free fertilizer - his gardenias are flourishing and Grantaire believes some credit is owed to his urine.

 

Out of bed, Grantaire becomes acutely aware of his own nakedness and dons the first pair of trousers he localizes. They bear a very visible stain of wine upon them, but they will serve well enough for his landlord.

 

Only it is not his landlord on the other side of the door, Grantaire realizes, to his deepest embarrassment. It is Enjolras - his mouth drops at the state of Grantaire, he clears his throat before he nods, stiffly.

 

“Hello Grantaire.”

 

“A good day to you, Monsieur. How may I be of service?”

 

Grantaire is convinced this situation warrants some snideness.

 

Is he imagining the color sitting high on Enjolras’ cheekbones? Yes, in all likelihood it is not a blush. Perhaps the man has walked here in the sun and acquired a light burn for his troubles.

 

“It is rather myself that thought to be of service to you - though I see now why Courfeyrac laughed at me when I informed him of my plans to visit you.”

 

“So it was him who relayed my address - how did he come by it?”

 

“If he is to be believed he brought you home after last night’s excess.”

 

“Ah.”

 

So it was not a vision. Courfeyrac did decide to wrap a ribbon around his hat, and no one thought to warn him he would look ridiculous.

 

“Quite,” Enjolras agrees, once more clearing his throat. He motions with the bag in his arms. “I have brought food, though I wonder now if you even have an appetite - you look rather ill.”

 

“Why thank you,” Grantaire snorts. “As it is a cup of coffee will soon cure me of my many ails.”

 

“Good,” Enjolras nods, expelling a long breath. “That is truly very good to hear. Might I be granted entry or am I to pass the day at your door?”

 

Grantaire hastily steps to the side and is given a few minutes to wallow in shame as Enjolras bears witness to the dreadful state of his apartment. That ought to teach him to clean up after himself more often. As it stands Enjolras does not seem to mind much, for his eyes return to Grantaire after but a quick perusal of the room, and on Grantaire they remain.

 

“Have a seat,” Grantaire offers, removing some stray bits of neckwear from his sturdier kitchen chair, “And I shall try my level best to appear before you again, a tad more decent, in a few minutes.”

 

In his bedroom he is at last able to slump against his door and allow the surprise to truly take ahold of him. Enjolras has sought out his lodgings. What vaporous illusion is this? What cruel tricks has his mind conjured now to make him suppose the man would willingly seek out his company? It is ludicrous!

 

He thinks to splash some water on his face, even thinks to attempt to comb his hair into an acceptable shape, and still he hears evidence of Enjolras’ presence in his apartment. He is real, then. How incredible. How utterly unbelievable!

 

When he returns to his kitchen table he sees Enjolras has set up two plates and produced a steaming loaf of bread, as well as something Grantaire takes to be cheese of very fine quality. He believes he even spies some grapes, deeper in Enjolras’ bags.

 

“Coffee?” Grantaire wonders.

 

Enjolras looks up from a thorough inspection of his own hands: “Pardon?”

 

“Will you take some coffee? I believe I have need of it. It is still early enough in the day that I do not think it would rob you of your sleep - though if Courfeyrac is to be believed you do not rest much anyway, these days.”

 

“Oh,” Enjolras smiles, “Yes, please. I should like some coffee. Very much.”

 

The feeling that he is being watched does not leave Grantaire be as he works in his kitchen. He pointedly looks out the window into Paris’ busy streets as he grinds some of the beans his brother sent him in February. They keep well, he had been assured, and they do smell wonderful. He hopes only that they will rid him of his headache, so that he may play an acceptably competent host as long as Enjolras chooses to remain. But why on earth would Enjolras remain longer than necessary? Why has Enjolras come at all?

 

He waits until Enjolras has taken the first sip of coffee before he speaks again. “How have you been, monsieur?”

 

“Well,” Enjolras nods, “I sat my first exam yesterday, though the professor is quite detestable a man and so it proved rather a temptation not to enumerate the many reasons for which I consider him to be awful.”

 

“I imagine if you had, your dalliance with the law faculty would have rather abruptly come to an end.”

 

“Entirely likely,” Enjolras concedes. “Hence why I did not. Courfeyrac asked me inquire after your spirit.”

 

“My spirit has been driven from my body, there is only a splitting headache at home in my mind, at the moment.”

 

Enjolras studies him a moment longer. “Very well, we need not speak of your troubles if you would not wish it. It is not my intention to have you reveal what you would keep to yourself.”

 

“How very gracious of you.”

 

“Yes, I have been told I am that,” Enjolras raises one eyebrow, stuffing a piece of torn off bread into his mouth and chewing. How on earth a man might manage to make it look so utterly enticing is beyond Grantaire.

 

“There is another matter that Courfeyrac addressed to me. It is one I realized only this morning I had never set right, even when it came up in conversation.”

 

“I am not sure my headache favors the direction you wish to lead us in.”

 

“Then perhaps it is time to awaken your soul once more, Grantaire. The headache has overstayed its welcome, has it not?”

 

“It was never expressly invited in the first place, but it tends to accompany the absinthe wherever it goes. What would you put right?”

 

“This misconception of yours that I shudder at the thought of your company. It is not so.”

 

Grantaire is quiet. He had guessed that this is what Enjolras was working up to, but now that his words have floated through the room, he does not quite know what to respond. There is always the option of dismissing his words, of giving into the urge to be cynical about it. After all, what reason could Enjolras possibly have to seek out his company?

 

Certainly, he has done so often enough, but it is all too easy for Grantaire to convince himself that it is because few men are as well-versed in the philosophical debates Enjolras so delights in as he is. He does not accredit himself with many virtues, but his conversational skills are more than just passable when he tries.

 

Enjolras continues: “I have never heard a man so astutely point out all that is wrong with our country, lay out what change he would like to see, and then so resolutely dismiss it as impossible. Truth be told from the day I first met you I have thought I should like to know you much better than I did then.”

 

“What, you consider me some fascinating specimen? I did not think scientific observation was your forte, but to be sure you would do well in the field.”

 

“You intrigue me, monsieur Grantaire,” Enjolras admits. “I wish to know you better and I wish for you to know that I greatly enjoy the days we spend together, be they filled with arguments or not.”

 

“So you always say.”

 

“But I will not force a rapport if you would not wish to see me so often. If this -- if it is a projection of your own heart, that you believe I do not care for...do not care to see you, then please say as much.”

 

Grantaire does want to see him again.

 

Enjolras smiles when he finally admits to it.

 

Almost as if time has slowed to a stop, Grantaire observes Enjolras’ fingers reach for him, feels them on his skin, feels them press his hand. He can hardly hear Enjolras over the sound of his own heart.

Enjolras passes the evening with him, only begging off when darkness is close to covering the city.

 

+

He ought not to have told Joly that he would find his own way home from the new café they have patronized tonight. As a product of walking an unfamiliar route, currently he has no idea which street he is on. Any hope that he may be able to read a street sign is dashed when he finds all letters blurry and illegible.  

 

“Grantaire?”

 

Whirling around to face Enjolras proves to be disastrous, as he slips and sees himself hurtling swiftly to the pavement. But Enjolras steadies him, appearing in his vision like some divine manifestation of security. Grantaire means to ask the man what he is doing, out and about on Paris’ streets alone at such an hour, but he cannot form the necessary words. No words will come to him, though he is sure he makes multiple attempts. Enjolras begins walking. Grantaire tries to carry his own weight, but his limbs feel awful, too heavy to bear aloft. Soon, some words return to him, but he cannot control their flow nor is he entirely aware what he is saying.

 

The next morning he wakes up, next to Enjolras in his own bed, with a splitting pain behind his skull, blinding and all-consuming. Enjolras still has his waistcoat on, immaculate as always if one discounts the slightly askew cravat. That is the one item of clothing Enjolras seems to have profound difficulty with. His coat hangs over the back of Grantaire’s chair, his boots are placed next to it, orderly, neat. Through the pain, Grantaire recognizes the desire to reach out and caress the man’s cheek, but he does not dare. Instead he observes, and hopes his headache will soon have mercy.

 

“Good morning,” Enjolras whispers, opening his eyes slowly. Grantaire feels ashamed to appear so wretched before the man. “Shall I go make coffee?”

 

“Would that there were something stronger to be had.”

 

“Water, perhaps? Courfeyrac swears by it. I confess I cannot corroborate his claims.”

 

“One second, monsieur, and then I will go about making some coffee. Surely you are in need of some as well,” Grantaire groans, trying to rub the pain out of his head, to no avail. It is not usually so bad, Grantaire thinks, but he does not usually find cause to imbibe quite so much. He has been very unkind to himself in recent weeks, though the alcohol masquerades all too well as temporary kindness.

 

“You made yourself ill, early this morning,” Enjolras stops him with a firm hand to his chest when Grantaire attempts to leave the bed. “Allow me.”

 

“Do you not have classes to attend today?”

 

“Grantaire, it is Sunday. I have all day, I can spare some minutes to grind coffee.”

 

Grantaire sighs and closes his eyes.

 

“Do not tell me, but no, I suppose I must face what I have done - did I...did I soil myself last night? I feel entirely wretched.”

 

“Only your shirt, when you emptied your stomach, though you disposed of it immediately afterwards. In fact you have disposed of most of your clothing.”

 

“My sincerest apologies that you bore witness to it.”

 

“You were out of sorts, but drunk men have been known to do much worse, as far as I am concerned.”

 

“You must think me awful now.”

 

“Did you think I had hitherto been unaware of your tendency to overindulge?” Enjolras wonders, taking the coffee machine into his arms and grinding beans with more vigor than any man so recently woken should be capable. “I know your habits, Grantaire, though I wonder at your reasoning.”

 

“Need I a reason?”

 

“As I do not think you much enjoy the aftermath of such excesses, I should think you must have rather persuasive arguments at hand.”

 

“And I suppose you wish to know my reasons as you wish to know Rousseau’s?”

 

Grantaire does not know why he is reluctant to admit his reasons to Enjolras. He had no qualms revealing his wretchedness to Isolde. And though Enjolras is right that he has already made the man quite aware of many of his shortcomings, a part of him fears that with each new morsel revealed, the man grows closer to observing him with nothing but disgust. He cannot stop Enjolras from rejecting him fully, upon a day, but he does not wish to provoke it more than is unavoidable. No, by now he is much too fond of the man to drive him away. Conversely, that makes him think he ought to drive him away. Such thoughts are awfully pervasive.

 

“Is it because of your father?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“It is...I would not have brought it up, only you spoke of him quite extensively last night, of a letter you received?”

 

“No,” Grantaire shakes his head, “If it were only that! I imagine there to be only a handful of men lucky enough to claim they get on well with their progenitors, many more have strained relations with their family and do not drown themselves in a bottle night after night. The fault lies entirely with me.”

 

“I am sure that is not the whole of it.”

 

“But it is.” Well, Grantaire supposes, maybe it is better to drive Enjolras away now, after all. He does himself no favors if he tries to keep the man in his life only to be left all alone in the end. “I am simply wretched. Perhaps in your kindness you have mistaken my story for a tragic one, but in truth I am only a coward and a drunk to boot. There is no philosophical reasoning you may debate, you will find nothing to redeem this man.”

 

“Is that not my decision to make? I do not see a worthless creature when I look at you,” Enjolras hands him a cup of coffee and has a sip himself before he has a seat on the edge of Grantaire’s bed. “I cannot simply take your word for it, Grantaire, since I know we agree on almost nothing. You may simply be trying to antagonize me once more.”

 

It hurts to laugh, but he cannot help it.

 

“Very well then. Would you wish to debate?”

 

+

 

Ordinarily when Grantaire leaves his apartment, he does not think to look at his door - rather he pulls it shut and vows to find his way back here by the end of the night. It is a kind of ritual.

 

But today a quiet rustling sound leaves him glancing back at it, promptly stopping in his track. Pinned to his door by a fine red topped sewing needle are two little white flowers. _Edelweiß_ , Grantaire recognizes, charmed. Unconscious of doing so, Grantaire takes them into his hand. They smell fresh, to be certain, and have been picked with meticulous care. In short: they are perfect, but why do they adorn Grantaire’s door? Perhaps they were intended for the man lodging across the hall - he certainly makes no secret of his nightly company.

No matter, it is at _his_ door, so he thinks he will take it for himself, wear it on his lapel today and be glad for it.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> History Notes:  
> -Listen. Rousseau was a sensitive Little Bitch. He beefed with everyone. Voltaire, Hume, Diderot...you name it. Once he wrote the King of Prussia, and the King of Prussia told his advisers: "He scolded me."  
> -Blaise Pascal and the Lettres provinciales: A defense of a friend of his accused of heresy. Very popular satire back in the 17th century, made a lot of people v angry. But as mentioned Pascal wasn't actually a philosopher, rather a Mathmatician/Scientist. You may remember Pascal's Triangle from your school statistics lessons. That was his brainchild.  
> -Van Leeuwenhook invented the Microscope and ‘discovered’ the existence of bacteria. The use of microscopes was laughed at for a long time even after Joseph Lister’s (the proponent of hygiene Listerine was named for, lol.) father perfected them.  
> -The Anti-Sacrilege Act of April 1825 Bahorel rails against was a conservative Piece of legislature passed by Charles (who ascended in 1824 I believe) & the Comte de Villèle, which raised Sacrilege to the same Level as Patricide (including the accompanying sentence --> Hand Amputation followed by a beheading.) It hardly made a difference though, because it wasn't really followed up on, but there was plenty of outrage. Louis-Philippe overturned it when he took the throne, I believe.  
> -The Edelweiß-flower was put under protection in 1886 and was no longer allowed to be picked, but this is 1825 babey and so R's #secretadmirer obviously had no trouble procuring one.  
> -Fun Fact: In Nazi Germany the youth opposition used the Edelweiss as a symbol. They were called the Edelweiss-Pirates. (At first the term was used to decsribe all manner of rowdy youths, even those on the right, but then it became a Resistance Thing.) In this context though, it is a symbol of love and affection. Edelweiss has a long history of being used to convey "Proof of Love" and/or "Daring."
> 
>    
> Come say Hi on [Tumblr](http://www.annabrolena.tumblr.com)


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